There was no fear in Bard as he regarded Erikk. He had been ready to die since the night five years ago. Since he had looked upon hands washed red with blood. Since he had watched the torches approaching in the dead of night, heard the sounds of the hunt. Since he had told his older brother to go, to run. Since he had looked the soldiers in the eye and told them it was he who had slain those men. Since he had lied. A different life, a different man. There was no Ulworth now, no Elfrik. There was only Bard. There was only Deathsworn.

'Well met, Erikk,' he said, sadly, letting his crutch clatter to the floor.

'Well met indeed, Lord Eran.' Erikk's mad glean gave him away in such close quarters. His eyes were dog-hungry, his disposition fidgety as they digested the prey. The axe he held was five-feet of ash ending in a double-edged blade fit for the cleaving of armour.

'Did you write that letter yourself? Orl Ejjar must be proud. I'm surprised, actually ... you can spell Orel.'

Erikk smiled but Bard could see the anger yearning to release itself. The Mountainman flexed his fingers. 'What's your name. Your real name? I'll be sure to spell it correctly on the slate around your headless neck, when you dangle from the tower.'

'I have a few names. You can call me Bard.'

'Bard ...' Erikk tried the name. Tasted it, savoured it, mouth working in the centre of his wild red beard. 'You may have the others fooled, my whore of a sister, my drunkard father, but not me. You think you are the first assassin to try and claim my Orlship?'

For a brief moment Bard was lost to confusion. Then he realised. He doesn't know we're Deathsworn. He thinks I'm here to marry his sister and threaten his position as heir.

'Well ... Bard? Do you deny it? I heard you, last night, outside my chambers. I saw you earlier, taking my place at the archery. I have eyes and ears in this castle, for it is mine. I know you fouled the Sweet Ale with poison, I had ale-boys watching you. Now I shall have to wait weeks for another batch. For that alone, I would make you suffer.'

'Justice is coming for you, Erikk. It rides a mare that will not be tamed.' Bard looked to the closest torch, bracketed on the wall to his left. Keep him talking. Keep him angry.

Erikk roared a laugh Orl Ejjar would have been proud of. 'Justice? Hammar is mine.'

'And its women? Its children? Are they yours also? Yours to rape, yours to abuse and murder?' The agony came back to Bard then. Torment from behind a door as he listened to Erikk's defilement of the woman the night previous. He steeled himself and repeated, 'Justice comes for you, Erikk. You can kill me, it makes no difference. You are marked.' He managed to smirk, despite himself.

Erikk faltered, just a split-second, for he saw the sincerity in the words. 'Justice ... Let us see how far your justice gets you.' He turned and propped his axe against the wall, then unfastened the furs from the top half of his body and let them drop to the chamber floor. He flexed arms thick as small trees, loosened the hardened folds of white muscle, peppered with nicks and scars, rigid across his chest.

Bard struggled his sling off and looked, once more, to the nearest torch on the wall. Four steps.

'I have a game for you, Bard. To make things more interesting for me, I shall leave my axe there. I will not touch it, on Mortus I swear. If you can reach the axe, you can use it.' Erikk balled his giant hands into fists and took a step forward. 'Now, Bard of many names, I am going to break you.'

Bard lunged for the torch but Erikk got to him before he'd taken two steps. He used the bottom of his boot to stove Bard into the wall, the air expelled from him before his back smashed against the stone. 'You must be quicker than that to win the game!' Erikk rounded the throne.

Bard slumped to the floor, body wracked with pain. His left side was useless, his spine battling every minor movement. 'Thank the Elders ... Orl Ejjar's strength went to Orel, not you.' He tried to laugh but the effort was stolen from him the moment Erikk seized him up, effortless as though he were an arrow, and threw him across the chamber into the opposite wall. The Mountainman thundered a cry, one loud enough to ring out in the city below. I wonder if the others will hear that. Bodkin, with his acute senses, Weasel with his nervous disposition. Will they ever know I was here at all?

He struggled to grip clarity as black spots spiralled and formed where they wished. He registered the massive blot approaching, Erikk coming for him again. Then he was weightless, the floor removed from beneath him, the wall gone from behind him. That was until he crunched into stone once more, his nose grinding into his face. The chamber surrendered to a myriad of colours, those that swam freely as Bard vainly sought to return to his body. He felt a river of warmth on his face, a pool of iron forming in his mouth. There came another thud and his head rocked back into the wall, consciousness returned by the harshness of Erikk's knuckles.

'Scream, Lord Eran ... scream for Hammar. Let them hear you scream, and watch them do nothing.'

Bard's left eye wouldn't open. His mind conjured Orl Ejjar's guardsman, Uffar, face smashed in like he'd been hit by a blacksmith's hammer. He wondered what he would look like by the time Erikk was finished with him. What my corpse will look like.

His breathing grew ragged as Erikk gloated to himself, pacing the room, slapping his chest, celebrating his supremacy. Bard contorted his head. One of the torches was a little way above him, to his left. Can I reach it? Can I rise? He tried. He forced himself to slide up the wall, left arm tucked across his stomach, stability an undecided notion threatening to steal the legs from him.

Erikk ceased his parade and sent forth a growl. 'And still you rise? Stern indeed!'

Is it stern, or stupid? A bit of both, I think. Bard ignored Erikk, his limp right arm questing for the torch. It fell short, swiped at the stone, and then tried again. Erikk's amusement manifested itself in an appalling cackle.

'Fire? You're going to hurt me with a candle, Bard?'

Bard gave a bloody smile, then used what was left of his energy to throw the torch out of the window.

Erikk watched the flame leave, bemusement on his face. 'Are you ready for more? The axe is there, come and grab it.'

The reply was a wheeze that fought a path through cracked ribs. 'Mortus piss on you.'

Erikk charged, and Bard surrendered himself to the punishment.

How many times he was tossed as Erikk had his fun, he couldn't say. From his muddied reality he knew his face to be a pulp, one eye bloated shut and his nose and mouth letting blood freely. He had long since lost any sort of feeling in his back, his right arm capable of swinging where it would, and not much else.

Erikk ploughed him into the chair. Through the haze, Bard saw the large window that Orel loved so much. Beneath its frame, the stump and the many coils of thick rope. Beyond, the city of Hammar, the high walls, the tourney grounds, the Wisp Wood. Somewhere, in the mess of it all, are the Gallowmen. My last true family. Family of circumstance, but family nonetheless. Bard would miss them, he knew, in his own way. It was a peculiar feeling, to accept death's proposal with meek acceptance. He had always imagined himself dying with his axe in his hand. As it was, the most he could offer was to leave the world with the dignity he'd tried damn hard to maintain while he lived in it.

The window disappeared, replaced by an ominous smudge that could only be Erikk. 'The game is over, little Greenman. I'm going to crush your head with these hands of mine.'

Pressure. Bard felt only pressure then. Tremendous force pushing inwards on both sides of his head, the cries of pain lodged deep inside him, along with everything else he'd ever known.

'You thought you could simply take what is mine?' Erikk squeezed tighter and the veins on Bard's forehead swelled with strain. 'You, of the soft green, thought you could come here and take what was mine? Here, in the land of ice?'

Ice ... Ice-white. I shall never see Orel again. He pictured her, as she had been in the courtyard of Hammar's keep. A tundra princess set against the pale moon. The thought consolidated every scrap of defiance and channeled them into one final eruption. I will not go meekly. Death wants to shake my hand, he can have my boot. 'Erikk,' Bard's breath was ragged, 'my head's thicker than you know.' He lashed out with both feet, planting them on Erikk's chest and driving him back across the chamber.

Erikk realised too late that his momentum, immense as it was, could not be halted in time. Instead, he tumbled backwards, heels tripping on the stump and weight alone electing to take the reins. The last Bard saw of him was the look of horror carved on his face as he plunged from the window, a blood-curdling scream chasing him all the way down.

Bard pushed himself from the chair, frail as a damaged bird. The lucid bursts of colour had their way and he stumbled to the window, grabbing the stump for support as he leaned over the edge. A colossal shape lay broken upon the ground, four torches flickering about it. He missed the moat. A cry came from below. Had Weasel done as he had asked? Had Bodkin received the proper instructions? In his battered state, he lacked the ability to shout down.

It doesn't matter. If I collapse here I'll hang either way. The coils of rope were coarse in his hand. He found the end, wrapped it about his waist and tied as tight as his strength would permit. The wavering came again, once, twice. Bard, man of many names, stepped onto the ledge, and then he fell.

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